Saturday Evening Post

Escapism is surreality at its finest.
Lips to lashes lash the eyelids
Left before her in the parting
For a drink from mouths that move
By muscles metered for the courtship,
They jerk swiftly in the muck of other
Voices spouting spasms of rhetoric.
Features dense like riparian buffers
Of untouched waters and you
Want to touch them for their worth.
Stalling however, stuck is the finger
To the counter top spill, wet wood grains
Meditate on what's in store, what will bloom
And how soon another evening fades
From youthful yard birds savagely chirping
At one another for a bit of wisdom.
Near her heated face the ice begins to penetrate
Between the lips full to the brim with
Scepticism for his forgotten name, not nearly
Remembered as he wish he were.
Wiser men have fooled themselves and
Foolish fools have risen knowledge from
The tampered ways of Spring's display.
Long drawn eye breaks take the kill
And make it ache with stings of hope,
She scribbled something with the pen
And now his hand is stained with a memory
Foreshadowing only bittersweet notions.